Getting Out
Raphael Mirabaud
Getting the car turned out to be easy.
If most operations went that smoothly,
the private security business would be a cakewalk.
Raphael and Flicka walked along the sidewalk among the few other pedestrians, weaving as necessary to avoid slamming into people.
They were conspicuous because Raphael was wearing only a black tee shirt withhis slacks and Flicka huddled in his black dress shirt over her ball gown. Snowflakes flitted through the wintry air as they walked, a rarity in southern France, so they hustled through the few other people like they were only going a block or two and thus hadn’t bothered with a coat.
He held Flicka’s hand as they walked, his hand wrapped around her delicate, light fingers. Holding her hand inpublic was overly demonstrative and, again, made them conspicuous, but he could not let go of her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go, ever again, to hold her and keep her safe and snarl at anyone who neared them, but holding her hand would have to suffice.
A man bumped into Raphael and apologized when neither of them managed to dodge each other. They passed each other andwalked on.
When Raphael looked back, Friedhelm Vonlanthen had also turned for another glance, his dark eyes almost smiling above his muffler. Snowflakes caught in his sandy-brown hair.
A key fob weighed in Raphael’s pants pocket.
They hurried another block. Raphael clicked the key fob.
A low, black car flashed its lights, which looked like slitted eyes. He sighed, but the BMW M3 had a V8 engine.It could accelerate hard if he needed it to.
Trust Friedhelm Vonlanthen to give Raphael a nerd machine, though.
They climbed inside. Raphael flipped the heater up to its maximum.
Hot air blasted from the vents. Vonlanthen had warmed up the car for them, and for that, Raphael blessed Vonlanthen’s name and his progeny for a thousand years as he tried to stop shivering.
Ice clinging to Raphael’sshoulders melted and ran down his triceps. Jesus, it was cold for southern France, even considering it was December.
Flicka opened the door for a second to shake the snow off the black shirt he’d given her and then slammed it.
Raphael pulled the car away from the curb and exhaled his relief. “Okay, we’ve got a car. We’re mobile. That’s a start.”
She clicked her seat belt. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” Raphael started following signs for the A8 autoroute to Cannes because he knew that road. It would take them through the southern part of France, the hills and mountains, and then routes branched from there to the west and north of Europe, where surely, they could find someplace safe to regroup for a few days. “Somewhere away. Somewhere they won’t think to look for us while weget this sorted.”
“I’m going to say this gently, and only because I’m a little surprised: wasn’t there a plan for after you broke me out of Monaco?”
“There would have been a week or so from now, maybe involving Wulfram’s plane in Nice.”
“Too bad he didn’t wait for me.”
“We were worried that Monegasque commandos might have stormed the plane and taken Alina back for leverage.”
“Ah. Yeah, Pierrewould do that.”
“Quentin and the Secret Service have become less inept, lately.”
“The guys in Geneva were the army, not the Secret Service, but Pierre might have sent them, too. So, we need to figure something else out.”
“Yes, we do.” Surely Raphael could find someplace to hide Flicka for a few days while he sneaked into Pierre’s bedroom at midnight and slit his throat. Aiden had dangled abovePierre’s bed when he’d served Flicka’s divorce papers. It couldn’t be too hard to do.
Indeed, it sounded like good, dangerous fun.
